


Slade, meet Wilson

by flirtygaybrit



Category: DC Extended Universe, DCU (Comics), Justice League (2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Crossover, Established Relationship, M/M, Mild Blood, Sex, Two Deathstrokes One... You Know ;), just kidding! this probably isn't the threesome fic you're looking for.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-03
Updated: 2019-08-03
Packaged: 2020-07-09 01:00:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19878988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flirtygaybrit/pseuds/flirtygaybrit
Summary: One room, two Deathstrokes, and three's a party (just not in the way anyone expects it to be).





	Slade, meet Wilson

**Author's Note:**

  * For [brodinsons (aeon_entwined)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aeon_entwined/gifts).



> Inspired in part by [this comic](https://twitter.com/francishsie/status/1150547760531120128) and in part by my desire to see Rebirth!Slade in a universe where things aren't yet quite as crazy as the comics... here's this silly little thing. :)

_Lower East End, Gotham City  
3:04 a.m._

In the early hours of the morning, most of the rundown apartment building’s occupants are asleep; some will stumble home in the next few hours, high off a night of gambling or recreational drugs or some other low-effort, low-reward habit, and some won’t come home at all. At least half of the apartments are still listed as available on local listing sites, and the building is far enough away from downtown that there’s little risk of being disturbed. It’s an optimal location for a safehouse, and an even more optimal location for a lengthy, late-night stakeout.

One safehouse belongs to Deathstroke. It’s as nondescript as the rest: single-bedroom, single-bathroom, kitchenette but no laundry, monthly rent that one could easily fall behind on with no repercussions. It’s filled currently with the drone of a portable air conditioner and the indistinct murmur of a television program that was only ever turned on to provide background noise. It’s also filled with Deathstroke—as expected—and is also filled with—unexpectedly—the low, breathy grunts of Bruce Wayne, who is himself currently filled with Slade’s cock.

If Bruce had to provide a single baseline adjective to build upon and add to, he would likely describe his sex with Slade Wilson as ‘optimal’. Not just good, not simply _better_ than good. Most times it’s flat-out fucking fantastic, and this is one of those times. He’s moaning against the side of Slade’s neck at the moment, not as loudly as he’d like but as loudly as the time of day and the environment will permit, and Slade has two solid handfuls of his ass and is holding him open and pounding into him at the same time, fucking him at a moderate pace with a socially acceptable amount of enthusiasm.

(Not that they’re in any position to care about what’s socially acceptable, as this entire situation certainly isn’t. Pieces of his suit are scattered across the floor, lying forgotten among various bits of orange-and-black armour.)

“You feel so fuckin’ good,” Slade hisses against Bruce’s ear, drawing Bruce’s attention away from the sword tangled up in his cape and back to the matter at hand. Bruce is panting against his skin, a breathless chant of _yeah, yeah, fuck, fuck me_. He doesn’t want it faster, or harder, or over too soon, and he knows Slade doesn’t want to hear him whisper _come in me, fucking come in me_ just yet because that would mean he would have no choice but to oblige. Right now, Bruce can just feel so fuckin’ good, and Slade can just fuck him the way they like, which is good and deep, right in Slade’s lap, sweat-slick skin sticking and precome leaking against his belly and Bruce’s arms around his shoulders, holding him close in the dim light and dull noise from the television.

Under optimal conditions, Slade would plant his heels against the bed and continue to fuck Bruce good and deep, slowing at times to roll his hips and rub his cock against Bruce’s prostate with maddening precision and speeding up occasionally to jackhammer into Bruce to show him that quick, shallow thrusts can be just as punishing. More optimally, Bruce would come during one of those stretches, shuddering from an optimal amount of stimulation from Slade’s hands or dick. Maybe he’d just come whenever he felt like it, smearing his mouth against the stubble on Slade’s throat and digging crescent moons into Slade’s back with his fingernails. Either would be good. Either would be satisfying.

But neither scenario happens, because suddenly the bedroom door slams open with the sound of splintering wood, letting in more light and noise from the living room than Bruce or Slade were prepared for, and Bruce can see in Slade’s face that there is something even more unexpected than that standing behind him in the doorway.

The entire bedroom seems to have been arranged in preparation for this particular type of scenario. Without hesitation Slade lifts a hand from Bruce’s ass and reaches for the side table where his gun is resting, and before Bruce can even swivel his head to identify the figure entering the room a half-dozen suppressed gunshots ring out.

“Get down,” Slade hisses. Bruce doesn’t quite hear or process what he’s saying, occupied as he is with the fact that Slade has just murdered someone with Batman still sitting on his cock, but the situation becomes exponentially weirder in the brief seconds he spends rolling off of Slade’s lap and onto the floor. The bullet-riddled body keeps advancing, withdrawing something from its back that Bruce identifies as a sword as the figure leaps onto the bed and attempts to run it through Slade. By the time Bruce springs to his feet, the sword has been embedded in Slade’s open palm, and just as Slade wrenches it aside and redirects it into the cheap fabric headboard Bruce raises a gun of his own: his grappling gun, which slices cleanly through the figure’s forearm when he fires it and jerks the line back.

Never one to waste an opportunity, Slade roars and places a solid kick to the centre of the figure’s chest, and while the figure is off-kilter and struggling against the grapple that Bruce has on his arm, he empties the rest of his magazine into the intruder’s chest; it’s only then that Bruce notices a familiar duo-toned fabric mask covering the intruder’s head, and the Deathstroke lookalike lets out a surprised wheeze as Slade pulls the sword from the headboard, twists his hand around with the blade still piercing it, and drives the blade clean through the intruder’s stomach.

Deathstroke stumbles backward and falls in a heap on the floor, and as Slade withdraws the sword from his hand and drops it on the bed, Bruce pauses to grab his cowl from the floor, and notices as he slips it over his head that they’re both still hard.

“Mother...fucker,” says the man on the floor. He lifts his arm and appears to inspect the grappling claw embedded in his arm, then lets his head fall back against the floor with a faint groan, barely acknowledging Bruce as he steps behind the man, grabs him beneath the arms, and hoists him up into a sitting position against the bed.

A single white eye is visible on the mask, which bears a striking resemblance to Slade’s. Bruce glances sideways as Slade hops nimbly from the bed and joins him on the floor, and to Bruce’s surprise, the man coughs and gives a wet, rasping laugh.

“You’re one brave sonofabitch, coming in here like this,” Slade says quietly, kneeling down in front of the man wearing Deathstroke’s colours. “I want you to listen carefully, or I’m going to start putting holes in you and I’m not gonna stop. Who are you?”

“Go fuck yourself,” the counterfeit Deathstroke grunts. He lifts his grappled arm again, then drops it. “More holes… Jesus fucking… goddamn…”

He laughs and coughs again, darkening the fabric around his mouth. His breathing is laboured and his chest makes unpleasant squelching noises with each inhale and exhale. The floor is already stained red with his blood, along with Bruce’s hands and arms. It’s a miracle that he’s still alive, but Bruce is too high on adrenaline to let the reality of the situation turn his stomach.

Slade reaches in with his undamaged hand and peels the mask up to reveal the intruder’s face, then sits back on his haunches.

“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.”

“I fucking wish,” the wounded Deathstroke grunts back, squinting up at the two of them with an unnervingly familiar expression. “You can imagine how embarrassing this is for me, and I’ve got all my clothes on.”

It’s Slade Wilson who’s slumped against the bed, bleeding profusely from the chest and torso and also from the mouth; his hair is longer, shaggier, and his normally-black eye-patch is white and strapless, resting comfortably over the same missing eye. He looks different in a way that Bruce isn’t certain he could put into words, but it’s undoubtedly the same man.

“Huh,” Slade says.

The Wilson lying against the bed grins a bloody smile. “Yeah, it’s a real shocker, isn’t it? One room, two Deathstrokes. And three’s a party, huh?”

He reaches for Bruce with his ruined arm, fingers outstretched toward the cowl, and Bruce stops him with a hand around his wrist.

“Say you are Slade Wilson,” Bruce says in the most menacing mechanical growl he can muster. “How is that possible?”

Wilson tilts his head back against the bed and gazes at Bruce for a moment, his visible eye roaming over the cowl and then downward, zigzagging over Bruce’s chest, his abdomen, and then the rest.

“Now I see the appeal,” he says, raising his eyes to meet Bruce’s gaze once more, and then his expression shifts and his entire body jerks as another silenced shot echoes against the walls in the bedroom.

Slade shifts the barrel of the gun from the fresh gunshot wound on Wilson’s thigh to a few inches above it. “What, if I can be so polite as to ask, the fuck are you?”

“I’m you,” rasps Wilson. He appears to be in immense pain, and he also seems to possess Slade’s tendency to ignore most major wounds and injuries. “Just not the you from this world.”

Slade nods slowly. He’s taking it in, scanning every inch of this new Slade’s outfit, which is remarkably unlike his own but still manages to look similar to an outfit that Slade might wear: orange gloves, a skin-tight black suit now riddled with holes, a single shoulder with scaled armour that looks like something Arthur Curry would pull out of his closet; he has a utility belt and a couple of thigh holsters and a sheath for his sword slung over his back, and Bruce notes that the mask and suit, seeming at first glance to be made of fabric, look to be made of some carbon-based material.

“Maybe you should’ve chosen a suit with more chainmail before busting into my world,” Slade tells him. “But since you’re here, let’s talk. Why are you in my bedroom? Did you come here to kill me or him? Is it a dead or alive thing?”

“Just you,” Wilson wheezes. “Clearly I picked the wrong time to try it. You usually stick your dicks in each other, or was this a special oc—okay, I get it, too personal,” he says, grimacing as Slade sticks the pistol’s barrel not-so-gently underneath his chin. “If it helps, the Batman on my side is not this hung.”

“Tell us about your side,” Bruce says, ignoring the flush of warmth beneath his cowl. “If you’re from another world, why are you here? _How_ are you here?”

“And if you’re actually me, you should know I’ll have no problem putting any more holes in you until you decide it’s time to share.”

“He’s already got holes,” Bruce begins, then scowls at the borderline eroticism of the conversation. This always happens with Slade, but he's never had to deal with it from _two_ Slades before. “Just give him time to explain.”

Wilson leers at him, then turns his attention toward Slade. “You wanna put more holes in me, that’s fine. Doesn’t matter what I tell you anyway. If I can’t kill you now, I’m dead already.”

He sounds matter-of-fact, which causes Bruce great concern. If everything he’s said so far is the truth, it means there’s another world with Deathstroke and Batman in it, and it’s more than likely that this other world might be filled with slightly different versions of the same criminals and costumed terrorists that Bruce is accustomed to. If Deathstroke is in danger _and_ has the ability to move between worlds, or realities, or whatever strange multiverse situation they’re in, there are likely greater threats that Bruce will need to deal with.

“Who’s forcing you to do this?” Bruce asks, loosening his grip on Wilson’s arm. “Why do you need to kill him?”

“Whoever it is, they’ve got something on you,” Slade adds thoughtfully. “Nobody kills me for failing at a job, and I assume you’re smart enough to know that no amount of money is worth walking into a room with Deathstroke in it.”

“I am Deathstroke, fucknuts,” Wilson growls. Slade looks at him for a moment, then presses the pistol against Wilson’s shoulder and pulls the trigger. “Fuck!”

“Answer my question, because once I run out of bullets I’m gonna move on to swords, and now I’ve got twice as many. Who sent you and why?”

“Sionis,” Slade Wilson wheezes, gripping at his shoulder. “Jesus fucking Christ, it’s Roman Sionis.”

Bruce narrows his eyes. “Sionis hired you to... kill yourself? Or this version of you from a different world?”

“He hired all of us to do it. You think this was my first choice, to come to some other fucking leaf and cockblock you? If someone did it to me, they’d be dead already.” He glances down at his shoulder and groans quietly, then tries to push himself upright. “C’mon, I’m not pulling any shit here. You got a bathroom? Can I do something about these fucking bullet holes while you interrogate me?”

Bruce nods, and Slade nods back. “Suppose so,” Slade says, then tucks the gun beneath his arm and holds out his uninjured hand to help his alternate-universe self to his feet. “I’d ditch the suit if I were you. Doesn’t look like it’s doing you any favours.”

“It’s better in my world,” Wilson grunts as Slade pulls him upright. “Guess you guys don’t have this tech yet. This suit could take a thousand blows from Superman where I come from, but here…”

He pulls at the fabric of the suit and grimaces at the holes that have been blasted in it. Bruce rises to his feet too, and grabs his compression underwear from the pile of protective underclothing on the floor as Wilson begins to limp out of the room. “So tell us about your world. Is it a separate world, or is it just some sort of… temporal difference? A separate timeline?”

“Totally different world,” Wilson says without looking back. “To you, anyway. As far as I’m concerned, this is the other world, and I don’t wanna be here any more than you want me here.”

Slade catches Bruce’s eye and shrugs helplessly as Wilson makes his way gingerly toward the bathroom, then raises a brow at the shorts in Bruce’s hand. Bruce lifts the corner of his mouth and notes that somehow, through stabbing and shooting _and_ a brief interrogation, Slade has managed to maintain an erection.

It’s a cozy fit for all three of them in the bathroom. The new Slade Wilson stops at the sink while Slade lowers himself onto the toilet seat, and Bruce pauses to pull on his shorts before leaning against the door frame while Wilson unbuckles his belt and unfastens his thigh holsters and slowly begins to peel himself out of his suit. 

“Let’s get this straight, then. You were hired by Black Mask to murder me in my world. It’s important enough to him that he’s gonna murder you if you don’t do it. Is killing your alternate self a common thing where you come from?”

“Not uncommon,” Wilson grunts. He frowns at his reflection in the mirror, then turns around to examine the exit wounds over his shoulder. Slade hadn’t missed a single shot, so his back is dotted with dark round holes and smeared with blood. “Hm. Good thing you didn’t aim for the head.”

“I wouldn’t have missed.”

“I know.” Wilson pulls a towel off a nearby rack and sticks it underneath the tap, then begins to wipe away the blood on his chest. “I would’ve done the same if someone busted in wearing my suit. Shit, I would’ve done it for less.”

“Then you’ll understand if I shoot you again for cockblocking me _and_ not answering these questions,” Slade says, resting his gun against his thigh. “Why does Black Mask need you to kill me? How did you get here?”

“And what did you mean by ‘all of us’?” Bruce adds.

“You two ask a lot of fucking questions,” Wilson mutters, dabbing around a bullet wound in his torso with his bloody towel. He’s leaner than Slade is, still impressively muscled but lacking the bulk that Slade has managed to maintain. It’s difficult to guess at his age, but he looks somewhat older than Slade, too. “But if you need to know, he sent _me_ here. I don’t have some sorta inter-dimensional door-opener in my back pocket. Second, I don’t fucking know why he did it. He’s got something planned, some sort of multiverse domination strategy that involves taking out anyone who could take him down in other worlds. Then he’ll probably get rid of us.”

“Mercenaries?”

“ _Everyone_ ,” Wilson says. “Every single fucking killer you can think of. He’s got the entire League of Assassins out there ready to slice up their counterparts when the time comes. The Al Ghuls, Killer Croc, Deadshot, Firefly, and I can keep going. Every fucking guy and girl with a gun or sword or mystical powers or anything else you can imagine, they’re just waiting to slaughter who or whatever passes for ‘em in this world.”

Bruce frowns. A wave of villains killing villains would be catastrophic, regardless of who’s making them do it or how bad they are. “Are they here now? In our world?”

“Tch, no. Can you imagine the fucking mess they’d make if they all came at the same time?” He paused to smirk at Bruce via the mirror, and Bruce was almost immediately more convinced that he was telling the truth. “No, it’ll happen in waves. Just one of us at a time, sneaking under the radar to avoid suspicion. One dead won’t raise any alarms. Two? Maybe. All of them, all at once? That would be a problem.”

Wilson tosses the ruined towel in the sink and sits carefully on the edge of the bathtub. He winces as he begins to pull down his pants with his good arm, and Bruce and Slade make eye contact once more, sharing an understanding that this is not the way either would have wanted a first meeting with an alternate reality version of themselves to go.

“And what about everyone else?” Bruce asks. “What about the Batman in your world? Superman? Do they know about this plan? Are they aware that this is even a possibility?”

“That it’s possible someone from another dimension might try to kill them? Probably. Weird shit happens in our leaf all the time. By the time they find out about this one, though, it’ll be too late for ‘em to stop it.”

Slade sits upright and crosses his arms over his chest. Unlike alternate dimension Slade Wilson, he seems to be utterly unconcerned about the state of his mangled hand. “You keep saying ‘leaf’. What’s that mean?”

“Leaf. Page. Like in a book.” He leans over and turns on the bathtub tap. “See, we used to think the multiverse, or what we _assumed_ to be the multiverse, was like a series of discs, or bubbles, or whatever self-contained bullshit you wanna picture them as. But we learned that these mirror universes actually like pages in a book. You’ve got the one you’re on, and when you flip ‘em over there’s always something similar on the other side. That’s your mirror world. Then there’s another page with two worlds, and another, and so on until you hit the end of the book.”

“And then the multiverse ends? Runs out?”

Wilson shrugs and, with surprising grace for a man who’s just been shot many times and stabbed in addition, lowers himself into the bathtub. “If you wanna view it like that. Like I said, it’s more like a book that never starts or stops.” He pauses to hiss at the cold water and sinks into it until most of him is covered and the water begins to turn pink with blood. “The pages are finite but they loop back around, so it looks and feels like it goes on forever, but it’s always the same number in the same location. You want the truth about other worlds? I don’t care much about ‘em, and if this is a simple world where people don’t travel across space and time and other dimensions, I just might stay here.”

“We have space travel.”

“Moon landing, sure. You got fish aliens turning everyone into mutated sea folk?”

The look that Slade shoots Bruce asks _do we?_ and the look that Bruce shoots back says _I have no idea._

Wilson notes the silent exchange and settles back with his eyes closed. He seems far too comfortable with the idea of moving into a different dimension, despite the amount of information that he’s just unloaded on them.

Slade jerks his head at Bruce, who pushes himself up from the doorframe and ambles out into the main living area of the apartment. Slade stops to shut the bathroom door on the way out.

“What do we do now?”

“Assuming he’s telling the truth, we find out who’s coming to kill who and when. We stop them. Figure out what’s going on and why.” Bruce studies Slade carefully, monitoring his pensive expression as he flexes his fingers and examines the damage done to his hand. “Do you think he’s being straight with us?”

“Why are you asking me?” Slade asks, but there’s no heat behind it. “Eh, I don’t know. I think I would have no reason to lie in a similar situation. If he’s telling the truth and Black Mask has something over him, it’s got to be something important. Can’t be just money or reputation.”

“There’s also the fact that Sionis has the ability to send people into different worlds… and that he’s got enough influence over people like you that you’re willing to travel to a different world to murder yourself… and that more will be on the way,” Bruce says quietly, ticking off each point on his fingers. “We don’t know where they’ll come from, whether they arrive via portal or whether some technology is responsible for transporting them, whether he can get back to his own world without Sionis’s help…”

“Or whether he’ll even want to go back,” Slade adds.

Bruce nods slowly. His adrenaline has faded and left him with a sense of unease that churns his stomach. He should return to the cave and start working on this problem. He should take Slade Wilson with him. “We don’t know anything about what’s going on. We’re too unprepared right now.”

Slade exhales and turns to the kitchen sink. He places the gun on the kitchen counter and raises his hand, which is split nearly down the middle from shoving the sword aside. He’s soaked to the forearm with blood. “Jesus. What a fucking day.”

Bruce keeps an eye on the bathroom door and hums in agreement. “We haven’t even considered an alternative.”

“Which is?”

“He’s not Slade Wilson and he’s not from another world. That he’s someone from this world, and he’s either lying outright or doesn’t know the difference.”

“So what, we send a swab to 23andMe to confirm? Take a DNA test to figure out if he’s actually me?”

Bruce shrugs and turns toward the bedroom. The lock and frame are both broken from where their new guest kicked the door in. Simple to replace, but a pain in the ass to worry about on top of all of the other things they’ve now got to worry about. 

“Will he talk to you?”

“Would you talk to the guy you’re supposed to be murdering?”

“Probably not, but if I were you from a world where Deathstroke is a gun for hire and has a suit that can take Superman’s punches, I probably wouldn’t want to give Batman any information.” Bruce pauses and sways closer, eyeing the door as he lowers his voice and says, “I think our situation might work to our advantage here.”

Slade hums quietly. “You think he’ll wanna fuck you?”

“I—no,” Bruce says, narrowing his eyes. “I think you can convince him that you’re sleeping with me because your grey area overlaps with mine in this world. Convince him that you’ve got the upper hand. You’re not a target of mine and he won’t be either.”

“I’m just saying he’s seen your… everything,” Slade murmurs, nodding at Bruce’s bare torso. “If he asks, I’m not gonna say I don’t share.”

Bruce has been trying not to think of Slade’s double witnessing him riding Slade’s dick and leaping into action with an erection, and he has to force his mind away from the idea of fucking a second Slade Wilson, or even—no. Not a chance.

“Just find out how we can help,” he grunts, nudging a grinning Slade away from the sink. “Times, dates, locations. How do we stop Black Mask, how do we find the others he’s sending through. And don’t use me as a bartering…”

The bathroom door closes quietly behind Slade, and Bruce gazes up at the ceiling and sighs.

_Lower East End, Gotham City  
3:57 a.m._

“Two hours from now, a portal’s gonna open up by Admiral Dock,” Slade says, stepping out of the bathroom at last. It doesn’t look as if he’d had to put up a struggle or rough his alternate self up, and Bruce hadn’t heard any sounds of a scuffle from behind the door while he’d cleaned up the bedroom. Slade even looks pleased with himself, and he’s still naked, much to Bruce’s… well, he can’t say he’s _disappointed_ , exactly. “The portal is going to be opened by Sionis himself, and he’ll expect me-—at least, that version of me—to walk back through it with proof of my death. The next one will open tomorrow to let Freeze through. Same time, but on the other side of the city. He doesn’t know precisely where it’s going to be, but I think I can stop him before that happens.”

Bruce gazes at him from the kitchen table. “How do you plan to do that? There’s no way you’ll pass for him if you walk through that portal. Even if you put on the suit he brought with him, you won’t be able to—”

“If he takes me through, I can just play dead until I have an opening.”

“Play dead,” Bruce says doubtfully. “You’re going to let him walk back into a different dimension with you slung over his shoulder?”

“You have a better idea?” Slade asks, crossing his arms over his chest.

Bruce shakes his head just as the bathroom door opens wider to reveal Wilson, fresh from the bath with only a towel around his waist. The grappling hook Bruce had embedded in his arm is gone and the nasty-looking hole it had punched is bandaged up carefully. The bullet holes in his chest are still present, but they look somewhat less angry and will likely be gone within the next twenty-four hours. Bruce is quite used to Slade’s accelerated recovery times by now. He still doesn’t envy the amount of gunfire Wilson took earlier, but at least it won’t leave any lasting wounds.

“So you two are a thing here?” Wilson asks, pulling out the chair opposite Bruce and lowering himself into it. “You know, one of your kids tried to convince me that I was his father back in my world. A horseshit story in the end, but it was a weird few days. Kid followed me around calling me ‘father’ for a while. Talia’s boy. You know?”

Bruce stares across the table at him for a moment, already beginning to regret removing the cowl in order to have a more open and honest conversation. He can feel Slade’s gaze on him.

“I don’t have any children,” he says.

Wilson nods briefly, then leans forward and rests his elbows on the table. “Batman saved my life once. I saved his, too. I stabbed him,” he adds thoughtfully, “and he almost caved my skull in, but we made it out alive. We’re perfectly matched in almost every way. In another world, I consider us brothers. Not in blood but in bond. Sons of Alfred’s.”

Bruce presses his lips together. He’d hoped that Wilson wouldn’t recognize him, but it seems Wilson knows more than he’s been letting on. The world Slade Wilson comes from must be a very different one than the one Bruce lives in now. 

“Did you kill Deathstroke in that world too?”

“...No, I didn’t,” Wilson says after a pause. “And if we do this together, I won’t have to.”

Bruce offers him a small smile and nods. Behind the otherworld Slade Wilson, the Slade Bruce knows is wearing a particularly smug expression. “Thank you. I swear to you that we’ll do everything in our power to help.”

“I know.” Wilson clears his throat and pushes himself up from the table, swinging his head to look at Slade as well. “We don’t have much time before the portal comes online. We’ll need to get moving if we want to get to the dock and set the scene. We can negotiate that thing we talked about after,” he adds, speaking to Slade directly.

“Sounds like a plan.”

Slade turns and makes his way into the bedroom and Bruce stands to his feet and follows, picking up the upper and lower sections of his body armour in preparation for suiting up, but to Bruce’s surprise Slade completely bypasses his own suit and goes for Wilson’s sword instead, still lying forgotten where he’d dropped it on the bed, and he holds it out for Wilson to take as he returns to the kitchen.

“Are you going out like that?” Bruce asks.

“We’re getting ready, don’t get your panties in a twist,” Slade replies. He stretches his arms over his shoulders and arches his back with a groan, then tilts his head from side to side and shakes his arms and shoulders as Wilson readies his sword. “Just gotta make a few preparations before we roll out.”

Slade Wilson catches Bruce’s gaze and grins, then aims the point of his sword at Slade with his unbandaged arm like a baseball batter preparing for a homerun. “Yeah, don’t worry, Bats. We’ll be ready to leave soon. I’m just gonna put some holes in him first.”


End file.
